


After the Party

by JoyAndOtherStories



Series: Slumber Party Summons and Aftereffects [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, I have a 'verse now, M/M, Set in the Slumber Party Summons fic, Slumberverse, The OCs from Slumber Party Summons will turn up, brand-new relationship, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyAndOtherStories/pseuds/JoyAndOtherStories
Summary: Holiday-themed fluff for our Ineffable Couple, starting the evening after their breakfast in Atlanta (see Slumber Party Summons if you like!). Thanks to Drawlight and Soft-Angel-Aziraphale for the holiday prompts!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Slumber Party Summons and Aftereffects [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560064
Comments: 133
Kudos: 378
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, An Ineffable Holiday 2019, Good Omens Christmas





	1. Snow, Mistletoe, Ice Skating

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone's interested, the slumber party in Slumber Party Summons happens the night of December 13-14, 2019. This fluffy holiday fic starts the evening of Saturday, December 14.

“It’s not _real_ snow,” groused Crowley.

“Well, of course it’s not real snow, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “The weather’s not nearly cold enough, for one thing.” He patted Crowley’s hand, which was tucked into his elbow, where it had spent most of the day. It hadn’t stopped making Crowley dizzy yet.

A blob of whatever was spewing from the “snow” machine drifted to land on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley scooped it off with one finger (he could _do_ things like that now) and peered at it.

“It looks more like…detergent.”

“Oh my. I do hope it’s non-toxic,” said Aziraphale, watching a group of children, clad in jackets and warm hats, laughing delightedly as they jumped to catch handfuls of the floating white…whatever it was. Most of them were already festooned with globs of it like puffy white wigs. Or, thought Crowley, remembering one of the new words he’d learned overnight while trapped in a pentagram in a suburban Atlanta basement, like they were all cosplaying as Aziraphale.

“C’mon, angel, this way; the skating rink is over here.” Crowley could just make out, through the drifting not-snow, distracting strands of twinkle lights, and artificial garlands, an area where the holiday-dressed Americans appeared to be gliding rather than milling about. He tugged at Aziraphale’s arm and started that way, unfortunately just in time for a gust of wind to blow a curtain of fake snow into his face—

“Ack! Pah! Gah! Eck!” It was considerably worse than the aftertaste of sobering up. “That tastes awful!”

Aziraphale surveyed him, his eyes crinkling fondly. “It stands out a bit more on you, dear.” He brushed at Crowley’s shoulders, still in the black silk blouse Crowley had miracled this morning (and oh for someone’s sake, _Aziraphale_ could do things like that now). “Oh dear. I believe I’m just smearing it. And I’m afraid I don’t dare touch your hair.”

“Better not,” agreed Crowley hastily, thinking of the potential wrath of certain American teenagers. Aziraphale’s gaze…slowed, sort of, as he studied Crowley’s cascade of curls and tendrils, miraculously held in place since breakfast (literally miraculously).

“Hmm,” the angel said, eyes still…loitering, and snapped his fingers. A number of white blobs of something that wasn’t snow were startled to find themselves propelled upward, and drifted off to find someone more inviting to land on.

“Ehhnnnggg,” Crowley articulated. His scalp was tingling.

“Don’t mention it, my dear,” Aziraphale twinkled. “Now, where were we headed?”

Crowley didn’t especially trust his voice, so he wordlessly led the way to the miniscule skating rink set up improbably in the middle of an Atlanta park. The rink was packed with humans who clearly didn’t make a habit of ice skating. They rotated around in a slow, giggling circle, punctuated with gaps where one fallen skater had taken out several more behind them. Crowley dragged Aziraphale around the perimeter, slowed by the angel miracling at least six unlikely escapes from falling.

Finally Crowley stopped in his tracks, frowning upward. “Is that supposed to be mistletoe?” he demanded.

Aziraphale followed his gaze (on the ice beyond the low wall beside them, a very small child found herself holding a hand rail that hadn’t been there before). “It’s certainly not very accurate,” he said, giving a critical look to the garland of green plastic sprigs with white berries. “Although, I must say, I don’t see what else it could be.”

Crowley looked at the inaccurate mistletoe, then back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. Crowley repeated his gazes, more pointedly. The angel sighed, though Crowley could see the tug of a smile in his cheeks.

“Are you about to explain to me that the humans have a…ah…particularly intimate tradition involving mistletoe?” Aziraphale asked. “Because I’ll have you know, I invented that tradition.”

“You didn’t!” Crowley snapped indignantly. “Because _I_ did. Scandinavia, in…I don’t know, sometime B.C.”

“I most certainly did,” Aziraphale retorted. “I was in Greece at the time. It was…well, also ‘sometime B.C.’ You must have copied—mph!”

The “mph” was because Crowley had taken his courage (and Aziraphale) in both hands and…engaged in the particularly intimate human tradition involving mistletoe.

“Oh!” gasped Aziraphale when they parted after a few rather inelegant seconds.

Crowley took in a hissing breath, some annoying part of his mind making a note to work on his technique.

“D’you know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you?” he croaked aloud, snaking one unsteady arm around Aziraphale’s waist to keep him close. And to keep himself standing.

“Since this morning, perhaps?” Aziraphale suggested, as drily as he could manage while his cheeks were still deliciously pink.

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “That was _you_ kissing _me_ , if you care to remember.”

“I do indeed.” Aziraphale’s smile had gone a touch smug, though he was holding Crowley’s elbow in a way that indicated he also needed some support to stay upright.

“Anyway,” said Crowley, barely managing to keep from submerging in Aziraphale’s eyes again, “I meant before that.”

“I do hope you’re going to tell me,” said Aziraphale gently, and maybe a bit shakily, brushing a curling tendril of hair from Crowley’s cheek.

“Mmmnnnh,” Crowley managed. “Since they invented kissing.”

“Ah,” breathed Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t imagined the hint of trembling. “Do you know, it’s been nearly as long for me.” His eyes did that lingering flick to Crowley’s lips that Crowley was in no way accustomed to noticing yet.

Crowley swallowed, lifted Aziraphale’s plump chin, and brought their lips together again, this time as softly as he could.

A gust of mock snow blew around them, small white drops settling on black and cream shoulders, red and blonde hair. Neither of them noticed.


	2. Nutcracker, Cranberry, Hot Cocoa, Caroling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls are back! Thanks again to drawlight and Soft-Angel-Aziraphale for the prompts! Here are Days 3 and 4!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LaskasBasket for the suggestion--this is now the Slumberverse!

Crowley had no intentions of stopping their kiss, ever, really, if Aziraphale didn’t—but old paranoia died hard, and at some point his eyes made the misguided decision to open and scan the area.

“Aaagh,” he sighed.

Aziraphale’s eyes, startled open, went first to Crowley’s face, then followed his gaze—

“Ahh.”

Four hatted and jacketed American teenagers were regarding them coolly, sipping steaming hot cocoa from Styrofoam cups.

“Well, don't stop because of us,” said Maya, sweeping her braids behind her shoulder.

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why, hello, my dears,” said Aziraphale, valiantly summoning a facsimile of his usual courtesy. “I see you’ve found us. It’s—ah—lovely to see you again.”

Reya nodded appreciatively, dark curls shaking loose from under her knitted hat that probably had something to do with American football. “That’s a nice try, really.”

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean, dear,” Aziraphale said. “We’re very pleased to see you.”

Kasey, in a weathered greenish coat, squinted at them. “You’re _both_ really bad liars.”

“Excuse you,” Crowley snorted. “I’m a demon. I’m an _excellent_ liar.”

“And I, as an angel, do not prevaricate unless under very exceptional circumstances,” said Aziraphale with a sanctimonious little nod.

“Like when your favorite demon just snuck out of your shop and your bosses turn up?” Crowley suggested into his ear.

“Shush,” said Aziraphale, squeezing his hand.

“You two are adorable,” sighed Kami, who was wearing a puffy, bright red jacket. “C’mon, I’ve got to get in place for the caroling flash mob, and Maya’s little sister is about to be onstage with the Nutcracker.”

“Wait, wait,” said Crowley, while Aziraphale was still visibly sorting through this verbal jumble, “I didn’t sign up for caroling or nutcrackers. I thought we were just picking up the…the art.” (It turned out that “the portraits you made of us falling in love” was something he was not yet prepared to announce in the middle of crowds of holiday-themed Americans.)

“I have it,” said Maya, patting a messenger bag slung across her form-fitting black jacket. “But y’all need to see more of Atlanta. All you’ve seen is a basement and a couple of restaurants.”

“And _he_ ”—Kasey pointed disapprovingly at Aziraphale—“thought it was burned down up until about 4 this morning.”

“Come _on_ ,” said Kami, grabbing Crowley’s elbow with one hand and Maya’s with the other. Since Crowley was still holding Aziraphale’s hand (and had no intention of changing that), they were all dragged along through the ambling clumps of people in a sort of human chain (sort-of-human in his and Aziraphale’s case, anyway). Kasey and Reya followed in their wake.

“Here we go; I’m supposed to be next to the cranberries person,” said Kami as they drew closer to a stage where a number of parental-looking Americans were waiting, with varying degrees of anxiety and boredom.

“The Cranberries?” Crowley asked, startled. He was as big a Cranberries fan as the next demon—no, scratch that, a much bigger Cranberries fan than your average demon, as your average demon hadn’t heard of the Cranberries—but an Atlanta holiday celebration seemed an odd place to find them.

“You know, like, cranberry sauce and jelly and stuff?” said Reya, frowning at him perplexedly. “They've gotta have that in England.”

“Oh, that sounds delightful!” said Aziraphale, looking eagerly to the little stand some yards to his right, where stacked jars of red jelly framed a white woman, hair in untidy dreadlocks, who was eagerly conversing with an overwhelmed-looking man.

“Whatever you do, don’t ask her about aliens,” said Maya urgently.

“Or whales,” nodded Kasey.

“Or Atlantis,” agreed Kami.

“Russia,” added Reya.

“Mongolia. Oh my God.”

“Helicopters.”

“Jim Cantore.”

“Almonds.”

“The Shining.”

“Right,” said Crowley.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” said Aziraphale, looking a bit dazed.

“She’s really nice,” said Kami fairly.

“And the cranberry sauce is really good, and I don’t even like cranberry sauce,” said Reya.

“Ok, I’ve gotta go where my parents are,” said Maya, as the opening notes of The Waltz of the Sugar Plum Fairy sounded. Crowley saw the quick, secret hand squeeze that she and Kami shared as she left. He felt Aziraphale’s hand tighten on his, knew he’d seen it too, and drew the angel closer to his side.

“Wasn’t the Nutcracker one of yours?” he asked Aziraphale quietly as a crew of very small humans in tutus bobbed up and down at various tempos, none of them the same as what the speaker was playing.

“You know perfectly well I don’t write music, my dear.”

“You know what I mean. You told me you were there, blessing good old Tchaikovsky.”

“Well…yes. I might have…gotten carried away. To tell the truth, I was really just trying to cheer the gloomy fellow up. I can’t say I meant to inspire a…a phenomenon.”

“Eh. Yeah, that can happen,” Crowley said, thinking of Hamlet. “I still prefer the one with the cannons, though.”

The tiny humans were replaced by slightly less tiny ones who bobbed up and down in a slightly more coordinated way. Aziraphale kept edging closer to the stand with the cranberries and the forbidden conversation topics.

“Go on,” Crowley sighed. “Just don’t ask her about shiny almond aliens or whatever it was.”

He wasn’t given very long to meditate on how bereft his right hand felt without his angel holding it—

“There she is!” said Kami, swatting his elbow to make him look at the now-medium-sized humans in tutus, swooping and twirling to the Waltz of the Something-or-Others. The indicated human didn’t look a great deal like Maya, but Kami was already explaining this, chattering on about how the sister “takes after their mom, and Maya takes after their dad” (who did indeed look like a taller, bald version of Maya), while Kasey watched the ballet with her usual detached attention and Reya began to look a bit fidgety. Maya’s sister’s ballet…crew? Gang? Group of people dancing, anyway, were notably better coordinated than any of the previous ones, but still only held Crowley’s attention for approximately six seconds before he glazed over. He looked instead to where Aziraphale was standing, politely befuddled, as the cranberries person gesticulated enthusiastically at him.

By the time Aziraphale made his way back to Crowley and his three accompanying teenagers, the last of the dancing groups was filing off (which was a relief, though not nearly as big a relief as reclaiming Aziraphale’s left hand). The angel was now sporting a bulging canvas tote bag labeled “Cran Can Farms.” Crowley wondered just how many cran cans were crammed in there.

“You asked about one of the things, didn’t you?” said Reya, correctly reading Aziraphale’s perplexed expression.

“I’m fairly certain I didn’t,” said Aziraphale, uncertainly. “But I must say, she does have some rather strong opinions about the royal family.”

“She probably thinks they’re werewolves,” said Kami knowledgeably.

“Ah—vampires, I think,” said Aziraphale. “Or possibly capitalists, although I’m not sure that she sees a distinction between the two.”

“Well, if you got her started on economics, you’re lucky you got away at all,” said Kasey. “Remember that time with the tortilla guy—”

“Sh-sh-sh, here’s the band,” Kami interrupted. Sure enough, assorted instrumentalists were now seating themselves onstage, though Crowley couldn’t think why they were so interesting.

“Where’d you get the cocoa?” he asked Reya, who indicated a stand on the far side of the cranberries. “Be back in a second, angel,” Crowley told Aziraphale, bravely squeezing his hand. He was rewarded with a warm squeeze in return. He gave the cranberries-and-conspiracies stand a wide berth and waited in line for a teenager dressed as an elf to hand him two Styrofoam cups of steaming brownish liquid. He arrived back at Aziraphale’s side just as the band started up “Angels We Have Heard on High.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear.” Crowley received a glowing smile from his own personal angel, not on high at all, just right next to him, and for some moments the music, cranberries, and teenagers alike were tuned out, as he came closer to grasping that Aziraphale really might be _his_ angel.

“It’s…um…probably not very high quality cocoa,” he mumbled.

“Not to worry, dear,” said Aziraphale, blowing delicately across the surface of his. “It’s all part of the experien—”

“ **GLO-O-O-O-O, GLO-O-O-O-O, GLO-O-O-O-O-O-RIA**!!”

Crowley actually ducked.

Somehow his cocoa didn't spill, which must have been Aziraphale's miracle, since it certainly wasn't his.

A moment later, he realized that, of course, he was not surrounded by an actual angelic choir. Reya’s and Kasey’s mildly scornful raised eyebrows were helpful hints, as was the fact that Kami was one of those doing the singing. In fact, previously innocent-looking humans all around them were now tunefully bellowing “IN EXCELSIS DE…E…O!”

“Caroling flash mob,” Crowley muttered.

“Yep,” said Kasey.

“You noticed,” said Reya.

“How lovely,” said Aziraphale.

Kami kept singing, her voice sweet and surprisingly confident.

Aziraphale, gleaming delightedly, took a sip of cocoa and joined in an octave below her. Singing wasn’t one of his specialties, but on the other hand, he _was_ an angel, so the effect was really very nice (Crowley admitted silently). After a bit, Aziraphale elbowed Crowley in the ribs; Crowley rolled his eyes, and then forgot why as Aziraphale slid his arm around his waist, sending warmth straight through Crowley’s thin silk blouse. Crowley swallowed, steadied himself, and slipped his own arm around the angel’s curving sides. A few seconds later, he was a bit startled to find that he’d joined in the caroling.

He at least made sure to substitute rude words for all the lyrics he couldn’t remember. He was a demon, after all.


	3. Fire, Sleigh Bells, Warm Blankets, Making Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Ineffables get lost from time to time in their new relationship territory, but they're working it out.

The caroling went on for—well, in fact, Crowley had no idea. He _did_ know that he could have stood there side by side with his angel for a good bit longer (any length up to an eternity seemed acceptable), each of them sipping weak cocoa one-handed, the other arm wrapped around each other’s waists. Just over twenty-four hours ago (really? Had it only been one day?) he’d been forcing himself to leave the bookshop and go to his lonely flat for the night, certain that Aziraphale would tire of him or send him off if he didn’t make sure to absent himself periodically.

The night had definitely not gone like he’d expected.

He had wondered a few times if the whole thing was a very extended dream—he’d had plenty of dreams in which he and Aziraphale…er…talked about feelings. But they rarely went well, and certainly not for this long. And while he took pride in his good imagination, he didn’t think there was any chance his brain could have independently come up with Maya and company.

Speaking of which—

“Here, come take our picture,” said Maya, who had rejoined them and was handing him her phone. He’d taken the phone before he even had a chance to be startled. The four girls posed with extravagant expressions of anticipation, pointing to the stage, where the musicians had been replaced, improbably, by a large red motorcycle. Crowley sighed and took the picture. He (of course) thought of deliberately getting only their feet, or focusing on the clump of people behind them, but Aziraphale was watching and probably would have made him take the picture again. Or, worse, might have insisted on taking the picture himself, which could have taken hours.

“Thanks!” said Maya brightly, after she’d taken the phone back and surveyed the picture with just-barely-concealed suspicion. “Do you want one of you two?”

“Ehhhnnng,” said Crowley, already imagining Aziraphale’s nervous reaction to the idea of their being in a picture together, “no, I don’t think—”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale firmly.

Crowley had to look twice at Aziraphale before this sank in. The angel’s face was set in that rock-solid certainty that he usually reserved for topics like defying their Heavenly and Hellish bosses in public, and that Crowley hadn’t seen since—well, since this morning, when they’d sat together on a couch, watching scenes from their life sweep past on the wall of a pentagram.

“Uhh—yes!” Crowley backtracked rapidly. “Yes, absolutely. Picture. Brilliant idea.”

“I’ll text it to you,” said Maya, using her own phone. “I can’t believe you didn’t already have a picture of him. Um…smile or something?”

“I’m a demon,” protested Crowley. “I don’t smile for pictures.” He had, in fact, no idea what to do with his face in this situation.

Maya rolled her eyes. “Well, look at each other, then.”

Crowley turned automatically to Aziraphale and was greeted by a smile so sunny he could feel it warming him, and lost track of everything else yet again—

“That’s better,” he heard distantly. “Ok, you can stop—oh, never mind.”

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed, reminding him that, annoyingly, a world existed outside of Aziraphale’s smile. He pulled out his phone (obviously he’d included pockets in his miracled pencil skirt). The text, of course, was Maya’s picture—the two of them with a background of twinkle lights and the Atlanta nighttime skyline, Aziraphale beaming and Crowley gazing back at him with outrageously hopeless adoration.

“Oh, that’s very nice,” whispered Aziraphale beside him—

“HO HO HO!” resounded from the stage speakers. This time they both started.

A sound of distant sleigh bells filled the air—also from the speakers; not _real_ bells, Crowley thought peevishly.

“HO HO HO!” rang out a bit more loudly, followed by slightly less-distant sleigh bells.

“ **HO HO HO**!” It was booming now, with simulated sleigh bells jingling furiously, accompanied, inexplicably, by the sound of a motor revving.

“ **HO HO HOOOO**!!”

Two fake-snow machines blew curtains of floating white blobs from either side of the stage, obscuring everything; children and not a few adults shrieked and jumped to catch handfuls of it. When it cleared, a large human in a full white beard was astride the red motorcycle. He was dressed in a bright red leather jacket and pants, and wore a red helmet with “S. Claus” emblazoned across the side. He waved at the audience, who cheered loudly.

“Oh my,” said Aziraphale faintly.

“Errrr…yeah,” agreed Crowley.

A queue was already forming for pictures with Santa. Crowley felt a sudden stab of fear that the girls might demand that he and Aziraphale participate in this tradition also, but instead—

“C’mon, time for cookies!” called Kami.

“Cookies with Claus!” shouted Reya.

“It’s basically the best thing of the year,” said Kasey, much more quietly.

“My aunt’s bakery makes the cookies,” Maya explained.

“Oh my God, remember last year?” said Kami, leading the way around the stage and waving cheerfully at the cranberries stand.

“It’s not like we’d be likely to forget it,” Kasey replied.

“I smelled like sugar for _days_ ,” Reya reminisced.

“Three of her staff got the flu last year,” Maya told Aziraphale and Crowley. “So she paid us to fill in. It was _intense_.”

“ _Days_ ,” Reya reiterated.

“Remember how we found green and red sugar in your backpack like a month later?” Kami grinned.

Aziraphale was smiling beatifically at these culinary remembrances, that smile that Crowley had always wanted to keep hold of, and it occurred to him, glancing at the phone in his hand, that maybe now he could. He snapped a picture of Aziraphale, who gave him a mildly perplexed look but said nothing. Crowley’s heart was full to bursting with…something; he took picture after picture—Aziraphale’s face lighting up at the sight of the stacks of cookie boxes, Aziraphale biting into a gigantic cookie topped with green sugar—

“ _Really_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed.

Oh.

Damn.

He’d hit a limit. He should have known there would be limits.

“Sorry,” he muttered, lowering his phone, looking away. He could feel himself caving in where he’d been so contentedly full a moment ago. The chill in the air suddenly seemed to have more power to seep through his silk blouse—

“Crowley.” Aziraphale had his hand again and was peering into his face, all softness and concern, almost close enough to kiss again.

“I—” Crowley started, because what else could he do, in the face of so much care? “It’s just that…she’s right.” His voice had gone fragile and needy. “I don’t have any pictures of you.”

“My dear boy.” Aziraphale’s voice was a bit shaky as well, though the warmth was unabated. “I do apologize. Take as many as you like.”

“You…don’t mind?” Crowley sounded pitiful, and…he didn’t care. Huh. That was different.

“Not at all, my dear.” Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek in one hand. “I didn’t realize it was important to you. Please do carry on.”

“A-all right,” Crowley said—

“Oh my God!” came Reya’s voice from behind them. Aziraphale took in a forcibly patient breath. Crowley gritted his teeth and turned toward her.

She was staring in alarm at her phone. “This is an emergency!”

“What’s up?”

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

“My grandma’s coming over tomorrow night to make tamales.”

Crowley couldn’t fathom how this constituted an emergency, but Kami’s eyes grew larger. “Is it just your family that’s going to be there?” she asked.

“So far,” said Reya. “Can you come?”

“I’ll have to get permission, but probably,” said Kami. Reya looked at the others.

“I’m always free,” said Kasey.

“I should be too,” said Maya. “Sunday nights are fine as long as I’m not out late.”

“That’s still not enough,” frowned Reya. “She makes enough tamales to feed an army.”

“Well, they’re really delicious—you’ll have great leftovers,” said Kami encouragingly.

“ _Nobody_ can eat that many tamales,” Reya sighed.

“I’ve never eaten a tamale,” Crowley mumbled vaguely.

Four—no, five—pairs of eyes were instantly on him. He nearly took a step backward.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “you simply must—” He broke off, looking with some concern at the girls, who were starting to grin those alarming matching grins again.

“So,” said Reya, her grin edging toward wicked, “you two are free tomorrow night, right?”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” said Kami.

“Wait, how are we going to explain them, though?” objected Maya. “We can’t just bring two random British guys with no explanation.”

“We can say they’re friends of my mom,” said Kasey. “She knows lots of weird people. No offense,” she added (to Aziraphale, not Crowley).

“None taken, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “To be quite honest, we’re unusual by…well, by any standard. But are you sure your family won’t mind?”

“Don’t worry; they’ll be excited to meet someone new,” Reya assured him. “And really you’re helping us out. I mean you’re basically doing a good deed.”

“Oh, well, if you put it that way, we could hardly refuse,” said Aziraphale.

“ _I_ could,” Crowley pointed out, but Aziraphale looked at him in _that_ way, and—“Oh, fine,” he sighed, waving an arm.

“He used the puppy dog eyes,” said Maya in a carrying whisper.

“It was very effective,” Kami added.

Crowley glared past all of them at the stage, where a very tiny human was laughing delightedly at being propped up on the motorcycle in front of the leather-clad S. Claus.

“So, see you tomorrow, then?” asked Reya. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Of course, and thank you very kindly for the invitation,” Arizaphale answered.

“Oh—here—” said Maya, pulling a cardboard tube out of her messenger bag. Right. The art.

There was a brief argument about who would pay Maya, which ended with Crowley using Venmo (since Aziraphale would have had to miracle money out of the nearest bank, and he was still morally opposed to outright stealing). Then there was a brief argument about the cost, with Aziraphale insisting that Maya was underselling herself and should be asking for more. Crowley let them go at it and quietly sent Maya Aziraphale’s suggested price plus a bit more. The feeling of Aziraphale’s hand in his probably had a lot to do with that. She got the notification on her phone and raised her eyebrows at him, but—

“Oh hey, there’s my therapist,” said Reya. “Come on, I love embarrassing her in public.” And they were gone.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale into the subsequent silence (if by “silence” you meant the chattering of dozens of holiday-party Americans, with Christmas-themed pop songs blaring from several speakers), “do you ever miss Warlock?”

“Yeah, sure, sometimes,” Crowley replied.

“I do as well,” said Aziraphale slowly, “but I may be glad we…well, that our duties were complete before he became a teenager. They’re rather exhausting.”

Crowley agreed fervently.

“Ah—Crowley,” Aziraphale said presently, “I should have asked this before, but…did you have a plan for where we might stay tonight? I’m afraid I’m terribly unfamiliar with the area.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Crowley, feeling his ordinary demonic-mischief grin spreading across his face, “there’s a penthouse suite, top floor of one of those big downtown hotels, just came open earlier today. It’s reserved in our name now.”

Sometime this afternoon, an obscenely wealthy man had been abruptly afflicted by very severe and embarrassing gastro-intestinal distress, resulting in the cancellation of his week-long stay in Atlanta. His mistress, not at all forgiving of the abrupt change in plans, had finally broken up with him (via text), and was currently contemplating going public with a number of highly compromising facts she’d been privy to over the past few years.

An Uber ride and a hotel check-in later, an angel and a demon stood tentatively in the doorway of what would have been the billionaire’s suite. Crowley was trying not to shiver—his blouse-and-pencil-skirt ensemble, no matter how elegant, had been no match for the prolonged winter evening.

“D’you know how long I’ve wanted to take you to a penthouse suite?” he asked Aziraphale, almost keeping his teeth from chattering.

“Is the answer ‘since penthouse suites were invented?’” asked Aziraphale, smiling audibly.

“Ehhhnnnghh,” admitted Crowley.

“Good,” said Aziraphale, “because that’s how long I’ve wanted to take _you_ to a penthouse suite.” And he pulled Crowley in for another kiss—their fourth; Crowley was counting—before Crowley even had a chance to say “ngk.”

“But you’re freezing, my dear,” Aziraphale added, ending the kiss early (early in Crowley’s opinion, anyway). “Come along; we’ll find some blankets for you.” He seated Crowley on an ostentatious leather sofa, produced a stack of blankets from a closet, and tucked one around Crowley (it was suspiciously fluffier and warmer than an unmodified human blanket ought to have been).

“We could…I don’t know, perhaps light a fire?” Aziraphale suggested, waving at the suite’s gas fireplace.

“No,” Crowley said quickly. “Sorry—just—not yet.”

“Oh—of course not, my dear,” Aziraphale answered. “Of course, so silly of me.” He rocked on his heels, eyes darting around as if he were looking for something to do. He was nervous, Crowley realized—a situation that Crowley normally dealt with easily, and would have this time, if his brain would just stop repeating “ _Aziraphale in a penthouse suite_ ” and going into paralysis with each repetition.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “ah—I suppose I might…while you warm up, I might as well do some reading.” He fished the book Crowley’d bargained for him out of his coat, pulled another one out of the Cran Can Farms bag, and made for a chair.

He froze at Crowley’s involuntary noise of protest. “My dear?”

“’S just,” Crowley said—croaked, really—“maybe you could…nnnghh…sit beside me?” They’d sat together this morning, so that should be all right. Right? _Please let it be all right_ —

Aziraphale’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Oh, would you like me to?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered almost before the question was finished. “Yes. Definitely.”

“Oh, good,” said Aziraphale, in a tone very like the one he’d used in Eden when Crowley had told him he didn’t think he could do the wrong thing. Unlike Eden, Crowley reached out a hand to him, and Aziraphale took it. Crowley drew his angel down beside him, spread the blanket over both of them.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed.

“Is this all right?” Crowley asked. His own voice was ridiculously…breathy.

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale, “it’s _marvelous_.” And he kissed Crowley on the cheek. That made five, Crowley thought, slightly dizzily, or did it count, since it was on the cheek? It certainly _counted_ ; maybe he needed a new category—and that was as far as he got, because his brain short-circuited again at the idea that he could now have _categories of kisses_.

“Do you mind if I read, dear boy?” Aziraphale was asking, and that—the idea of Aziraphale _asking_ to read—broke through Crowley’s dazed tension. He let out a surprised-sounding chuckle.

“Oh, angel, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” And _he_ kissed _Aziraphale’s_ cheek. (Was that a new category? Or possibly a subcategory? Cheek kisses received vs. cheek kisses given?)

Aziraphale was soon settled into reading (the occult Latin book, whatever it was called), and didn’t even react to Crowley pulling out his phone to take a selfie of them, except to give a tiny wriggle that brought him even closer into Crowley’s side.

Crowley brought the phone down to scrutinize the photo—he tried to find a word other than _adorable_ and failed—and realized he’d gotten another text from Maya at some point.

<Thought you might want these too> it read, and had three pictures attached. The first was the blurry one of Aziraphale in the Bastille—and for someone’s sake, Crowley had _thoughts_ about that outfit. The second was Aziraphale in 1941, which Crowley still couldn’t look at for more than a few seconds—not without his eyes swimming, anyway. And the third—well, the third was from tonight, of Crowley and Aziraphale kissing under a garland of plastic mistletoe.

Maya was _very good_ at being sneaky with her phone, Crowley thought, approvingly, as he saved the photos. Then, hesitantly, he pulled up all the new photos he’d accumulated today. None of them were especially high quality--just random iterations of Aziraphale he’d captured as quickly as he could, now that he could.

He found, flipping through them with his breath catching in his throat, that he’d never cared less about photo quality.

He thought of the photo of flames he currently had linked with Aziraphale’s name. Ages ago, when photos on phones were new, he’d thought it was a clever visual pun—flames for the angel with the flaming sword (the heart shapes in the flames were entirely inadvertent, if by “inadvertent” one meant “absolutely deliberate and very carefully thought out”).

Since Armageddon-that-wasn’t, flames had different and horrible meanings for him, but he’d kept the picture even though it terrified him. No, not _even though_ —he’d kept it _because_ it terrified him. The Hellfire in Heaven that would have taken Aziraphale from him. The inferno in the bookshop that _had_ taken Aziraphale from him—the one time he hadn’t answered the angel’s call.

He’d been answering his phone very quickly these days when those flames appeared on the screen.

But what if, he thought now—what if he didn’t want to be terrified anymore when he thought of Aziraphale?

What if he wanted to be _happy_ when he thought of Aziraphale?

That idea was terrifying in an entirely new way.

But…what if? He scrolled through the pictures again. Aziraphale happy. Aziraphale happy because of him. Aziraphale happy _with_ him.

He looked to his right, where the real Aziraphale was pressed against him, warm and solid and _happy_ , right here and now with him.

He took in a deep breath and deleted the picture of flames.


	4. Silent Night, Lazy Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their first night together! (Still G-rated and will stay that way.)  
> This can be read without Slumber Party Summons, though it's mildly spoilery, if you accept the premise that they're in Atlanta and Crowley is very dressed up with long hair for whatever reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to drawlight and soft-angel-Aziraphale for their lists of prompts! The serendipity of "Silent Night" on one list and "Lazy Day" on the other falling on the same day was too good to resist!

Crowley blinked his eyes open. He wasn’t entirely clear where he was, only that it was very quiet and very warm.

“Angel?” he asked thickly. He knew Aziraphale was nearby, because—well, he knew what Aziraphale smelled like.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale’s voice was _very_ near, so near it vibrated through him.

“Did I…fall asssleep?”

“Yes, you did.” A hand patted his knee. That was nice. Very nice. “You’ve had an exceptionally long day, after all.”

Crowley would think about the length of his day in a bit. Right now, he was appreciating how comfortably warm he was, and how extraordinarily soft whatever he was leaning against was—

Wait.

“Angel,” he said warily, “did I fall asleep… _on you_?”

“You did, yes, dear,” came Aziraphale’s answer. Crowley jerked his head upright from—from _Aziraphale’s shoulder_. He turned slowly to face the angel, not sure if he should be horrified or apologetic or—or—

“It was rather lovely,” Aziraphale concluded. “I must admit that I hope you do it again sometime.”

Crowley opened his mouth. “Ah,” he said, and closed it again. Opened it again—“Eh”—closed it again. Opened it to try one more time. “R-right. Any—any time.” He looked around the silent, unfamiliar room. The phrase “penthouse suite” floated up through the sleepy fog currently occupying his head. He groggily noted that the windows were dark, so at least it was still nighttime. “What time ‘ssssit?”

“Only just ten, I believe. You drifted off for merely half an hour or so.”

Crowley started to rub his face, then remembered how much makeup he was wearing. He winced, and tentatively touched his hair where he’d been leaning against Aziraphale. “Think I’ve messed it up,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale’s gaze traveled over his hair in that lingering way it had been doing tonight. “Well, it had to come down sometime,” he said softly, then appeared to brace himself. “Will you—would you mind terribly if I…helped you with it? To take it down?”

“Would I—” would he _mind_? “All—all right,” he creaked. “Lemme—let me go deal with this makeup, first.”

In the suite’s spacious and well-furnished bathroom, he stared for a few moments at the slightly smeared remains of the past twenty-four hours, memorizing the look (the makeup as well as the look Aziraphale had given him when he’d seen it) before miracling most of it away, and washing off the rest. His usual sharply-angled face re-emerged, though pinker than usual from the washing. He frowned at it--or frowned with it?--decided it didn’t match the black blouse and pencil skirt, and miracled his black silk pajamas back into place. Ordinary nighttime Crowley, except for the hair. He hoped Aziraphale didn’t mind.

Aziraphale’s face lit up when Crowley emerged from the bathroom, and for—for something’s sake, Crowley wasn’t _used_ to that yet. He sank back down into the couch with no idea what to do with—with any of his body, really. He hoped Aziraphale had some clue how to manage this situation.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, twisting his fingers together.

Oh. He didn’t know either.

“Perhaps if you faced…that way?” Aziraphale suggested.

“Right,” said Crowley, shuffling to face away from the angel. “Sure, yeah.”

“I’ll—I’ll need to”—and Aziraphale was right behind him, close enough that Crowley could feel warmth and nervousness radiating from him. “Tell me if I hurt you, dear,” came his voice, also nervous and warm. “I haven’t done this before.”

“Mmmnnhh,” Crowley agreed, waving a hand.

Aziraphale might not have…unbraided? De-plaited? Taken down very many hairdos, anyway—but Aziraphale’s hands had millennia of practice handling delicate manuscripts, preserving crumbling bits of human history. Crowley had never anticipated that _he_ might be on the receiving end of that level of care. Dreamed of it, yes. But letting himself expect it? Definitely not.

It turned out that it was intoxicating.

Aziraphale eased out the hair tie first, then started at the end of each braid, liberating Crowley’s locks from the bottom up, ending with his fingers ever-so-lightly stroking Crowley’s head, brushing past his ear as he shook the curls free from the top down.

Crowley normally wasn’t a fan of silence, but at the moment it was allowing him to hear Aziraphale’s soft breathing, the rustle of his own hair as his angel gently unthreaded strand after strand.

He was _melting_.

How was this delicately overpowering care directed toward him, and _how_ had he never noticed the force of it before today, and how, _how_ was he ever going to fully believe it was possible, and real, and lasting?

He’d been climbing that mountain and tumbling back down all day, getting higher from time to time, but never, never getting himself entirely around it.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s fingers stilled. “It’s all down now, dear,” he whispered. “But would you—would it be all right if I…carried on for a bit?”

Crowley wasn’t sure if his vocal cords were operational. “You—you want to?” he matched Aziraphale’s whisper.

“My dear.” Aziraphale’s voice was still hushed, but Crowley could hear again that bedrock conviction that he couldn’t quite grasp applied to _him_. “I’ve wanted to since Eden. Of course”—Crowley heard a fond smile spreading through his voice—“at the time, I thought it was a temptation.” Aziraphale drew in a breath, let it out as he drew soothing fingers down the full length of Crowley’s red curls. “I’d do this all night if you’d let me.”

Crowley couldn’t answer because he couldn’t breathe—the mountain he’d been trying to scale, to grasp, all day was, in fact, not a mountain but a tidal wave, and at “if you’d let me” it had crashed over him; he was _drowning_ —he twisted himself around on the couch to turn to his angel—

“ _Let_ you?” His voice was shamelessly desperate, and so was the rest of him—he pulled himself into Aziraphale, buried his face in a soft shoulder, buried one hand in Aziraphale’s soft halo of hair, buried the other in Aziraphale’s broad back, clutching at the jacket and probably wrinkling it.

He didn’t sob, not quite, just breathed, sobbishly, breathing in Aziraphale, feeling Aziraphale’s soft-yet-strong arms mirroring his own, one hand in his hair, one arm around his back (he could feel every one of Aziraphale’s fingers spanning his ribcage through the thin silk of his pajamas), fiercely holding him steady as he tumbled and spun…

…Until finally he realized, gloriously mixing his metaphorical landscapes, that he didn’t have to climb the mountain, and the tide wasn’t drowning him, it was _embracing_ him—he could swim here, he could float here, he could live here; this was him now, this was _them_ now.

He lifted his face to look into his angel’s face, to drown in his eyes again—no, to dive in and swim.

“My dear,” he saw Aziraphale’s trembling lips trying to form, and Aziraphale’s hand tightened on the back of his neck at the same instant Crowley couldn’t stand to watch those beautiful lips shaking anymore, and this time it wasn’t him kissing Aziraphale or Aziraphale kissing him, it was Crowley and Aziraphale kissing, and some part of his brain spoke up to count and categorize it and was promptly washed away.

Even once they were no longer kissing, neither of them moved away; they sat with their foreheads together, breathing the same air in the silent room.

“All night, you said?” Crowley asked eventually.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, weaving his fingers gently through thick red curls. “Mm-hmmm.”

“You’ll get tired.”

“My dear. I’m the angel of the Eastern Gate. I don’t get tired if I don’t want to.”

Crowley let out a laugh—that involuntary, honest, diaphragm-deep laugh that only Aziraphale could bring from him—and Aziraphale joined him, and it was like a bench in St. James Park, laughing about towels and rubber ducks, only not at all, because their arms were around each other and their hands were tangled in each others’ hair.

“But, dear boy,” Aziraphale said when they’d subsided, “ _you’re_ tired. You really must get some sleep.”

“Don’t want to,” said Crowley, kissing the spot beside Aziraphale’s eye where the crow’s feet wrinkled when he laughed (his category system whirred hopefully back to life). “I’d miss you.”

Aziraphale claimed Crowley’s hand, delicately kissed the back of it ( _that_ was a new one). “I’ll be here when you wake up, dearest.” It might have been the kiss, or the “dearest,” or the assurance, or all three, but Crowley melted all over again and let Aziraphale lead him to the bed, tuck him into crisp white sheets and a puffy white comforter. He felt Aziraphale spreading his hair across the pillow, gentle, soft fingers grazing his scalp, and he did close his eyes, not to sleep, of course, just to focus better on the silken sensation, on the way the sliding rustling was the only sound in the room. The idea that he could fall asleep while _this_ was happening was laughable.

Absolutely not a chance.

* * *

Crowley awoke to thin wintry light filtering into a penthouse suite and required a few seconds to understand why he wasn’t cold.

“Mmmmmmph,” he said, rolling over so that his front instead of his back was pressed against Aziraphale.

“Good morning, dear,” said Aziraphale, smiling down at him over the top of his spectacles (where had he produced _those_ from?). He ran the hand that wasn’t holding a book into Crowley’s hair. The angel was propped against the headboard, legs extended down the bed and neatly crossed at the ankle. He’d at least shed his shoes (Crowley was briefly distracted by the tartan socks), but otherwise was still fully dressed, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, bowtie, and all.

“Gmmrrnng,” Crowley replied, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s round belly (and several layers of clothing). Then he scowled up at him. “You put me to sleep,” he accused.

“You _fell_ asleep, my dear,” said Aziraphale with that dry raise of his eyebrows. “Which, as I said, you badly needed. I do hope you’re feeling refreshed.”

“Mmmmm…a bit,” admitted Crowley, who was fairly sure he’d never felt this refreshed in his very long life. “What time isssit?”

“Around half past nine,” Aziraphale answered. “Which I believe makes it around half past two in the afternoon at home, which I must admit is terribly confusing.”

“Time zones,” Crowley agreed sagely, trying to keep his eyes from drifting closed (Aziraphale was running his hand through his hair again).

“Around this time yesterday,” said Aziraphale, his eyes on his book but not moving, “I believe we were finishing breakfast.” His eyes darted to Crowley ( _he’s looking at my lips_ ).

“Oh,” said Crowley, suddenly much more awake. “That’s—yeah, that’s true.” He levered himself into a sitting position.

“I must say, I was hoping—”

Crowley kissed him.

The angle was awkward, sitting on the bed, not that Crowley cared; he wrapped his arms around as much of Aziraphale as he could (the pillows were in the way), and thank—everything—Aziraphale was kissing him back, his arms reaching easily around Crowley’s slim chest, one hand traveling again into Crowley’s hair—he wondered if Aziraphale was making a habit of that; he hoped Aziraphale was definitely making a habit of that.

“Er,” Crowley said eventually, backing a few inches away, “I hope that was what you were hoping for.” It had occurred to him, very belatedly, that Aziraphale could have been hoping for any number of things—to go out for breakfast, to plan their day, to purchase a handmade Christmas ornament—

“Ah—yes,” said Aziraphale, pink-cheeked and breathless, adjusting his bowtie, “yes, that was—yes. Good read, my dear.”

“Mmm,” said Crowley, wittily. Aziraphale’s pink cheeks were occupying most of his mental space at the moment. “You know,” he said, sitting up straighter, partly because his spine was leaning in a way that a human corporation’s spine probably shouldn’t, but mainly to take in the view, “nobody on the planet wears a bowtie in bed.”

“I _like_ my bowtie.”

“I _know_ ,” said Crowley, rolling his eyes, “it’s just—how are you possibly comfortable in all this?” He plucked at a jacket lapel.

“I’ve been wearing these clothes for decades, as you never hesitate to point out,” Aziraphale retorted. “Obviously I find them comfortable.”

“Yes—but—but you’re in _bed_ ,” Crowley protested. “Nobody wears this many layers—or this many _buttons_ —in _bed_. Do you even own pajamas?”

“Of course I own pajamas.” Aziraphale wriggled fretfully.

“I’ve _never_ seen them. How many years has it been since you wore them?”

Aziraphale looked furtive.

“How many _decades_?” Crowley amended.

Aziraphale still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I haven’t kept track,” he said primly.

“Have you _ever_ worn them?”

“Well, I don’t sleep!” Aziraphale evaded, evasively. “It’s not as though I have many chances to wear them.”

“But you can wear pajamas for—not sleeping.” Crowley spread his arms, in his own very high-quality black silk example. “For relaxing. Lots of people wear pajamas for relaxing.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I relax perfectly well in my ordinary clothing. I don’t need pajamas for relaxing; I only need a book. And perhaps some wine. Or a snack.”

“But you _could_ ,” said Crowley, and somehow he was sincere now. “Relax in pajamas, I mean.”

Aziraphale met his gaze. He’d noted the change as well. “Do you want me to?”

Crowley sat back, feeling that he was treading somewhere unsteady. “Just,” he fumbled, hearing himself go all…soft, “maybe you could…give it a go? See if you like it?”

Aziraphale looked at him and sighed. “Of course, dear. I can give it a go.”

He kissed Crowley’s forehead (another new category), heaved himself off the bed, and made his way to the bathroom, muttering something about “puppy dog eyes.”

“They’re very effective!” Crowley called after him.

He flopped backward onto the bed, a starfish in black silk. A frisson of energy told him that a presumably very startled set of pajamas had just been transported from a neglected drawer in London, across the Atlantic to a gleaming penthouse suite bathroom in Atlanta. A few seconds later, the trickling realization that Aziraphale was _changing clothes_ behind the bathroom door let Crowley know that no, he definitely could not lie still right now.

He prowled around the suite, _absolutely not_ thinking about Aziraphale untying his bowtie, unbuttoning his collar.

“Hey, angel, there’s champagne and a—a nibbles tray!” he called from the dining area.

“Yes, I noticed last night, dear,” came Aziraphale’s slightly muffled voice.

“Of course you did!”

Aziraphale must have also used a miracle to keep the tray fresh—it had cheeses and little artistically cut pieces of fruit, which had no business looking as crisply appetizing as they currently did after sitting out all night. Crowley bit into an apple slice that was shaped like a star. It wasn’t bad.

“Crowley?”

He spun around. “Ngk.”

“If you laugh, I won’t wear them anymore,” Aziraphale said from the bedroom door.

Crowley crossed the room in two (or fewer) strides and gathered his angel into his arms.

“Angel, believe me, the last thing I’d do right now is laugh,” he said into Aziraphale’s ear, and kissed the fluffy hair just above that ear (his categorization system had identified 32 spots he wanted to kiss, and that was just for Aziraphale’s face).

“Oh,” said Aziraphale faintly.

Crowley stepped back to view him at arms’ length. The pajamas were flannel and tartan—of course they were flannel and of course they were tartan—the sleeves just the tiniest bit long, and whether it was simply the sight of Aziraphale in different clothing from the past however-many decades, or the fact that there was only one layer between himself and Aziraphale, or the way the fabric sat closer to Aziraphale’s skin, showing off his curving sides and round belly—

“You look”—he mentally flailed for the right word—“ _astonishing_.”

Aziraphale blinked. His brow furrowed. “Don’t tease,” he said cautiously.

“I’m not. At all. C’mon, angel.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand. “Come to bed. We’re going to have champagne and nibbles, and—and then we’ll order room service. We’re going to be—ehhnn—what is it when rich people sit around all day with all their stuff and don’t do anything useful?”

“Lazy?” Aziraphale suggested, allowing Crowley to drag him to the bed.

“Nnnhh,” said Crowley. “I think it’s a longer word. Whatever.” He deposited Aziraphale and went back for the champagne and snacks, nearly falling over on his return at the sight of Aziraphale, in tartan pajamas, sitting in the bed with his legs tucked under the sheets. _That should be a painting_ , he thought, and nearly took out his phone to take a picture, remembered in time that his hands were full—and also—this sight of Aziraphale, casual and relaxed and a bit vulnerable—it was just for him. He didn’t even want to share it with a photograph.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley realized he’d been standing in the doorway, staring, for…some time now.

“Possibly,” he replied, and handed Aziraphale the tray while he opened the champagne.

“Shall we make a toast?” Aziraphale asked, once Crowley had joined him in the bed and they each had a gently bubbling glass.

“Um,” said Crowley, entirely caught up in the way the top button of Aziraphale’s pajama shirt brought the lapels together just under the hollow of his neck, “to…to our first night together?”

“To our first night together,” Aziraphale beamed, and they toasted. It was a ridiculous toast, and they both knew it—they’d spent plenty of nights together—but on the other hand, this had been their first night _together_ , and they both knew that as well.

It was certainly their first morning in bed together. They nibbled. They sipped champagne. Aziraphale read. Crowley did things on his phone and eventually found the room service menu, handed it to Aziraphale.

It was almost like an ordinary drowsy morning in the bookshop, except they were in a bed together.

So, _not at all_ like an ordinary drowsy morning in the bookshop.

Crowley couldn’t keep his eyes on his phone, because he couldn’t keep them off Aziraphale—admittedly that wasn’t actually a new thing, but abandoning himself to it, in Aziraphale’s full view with no sunglasses to shield him, was entirely new. His gaze traced the slope of Aziraphale’s arm, the pale skin of his wrist at the end of his sleeve, the rise of his belly under his buttons.

Aziraphale, who was capable of reading for days without moving, looked up every three pages or so (Crowley was counting) to shine his smile on Crowley, take his hand, kiss his hand. After the champagne was done, Crowley got rid of the bottle and the tray so he could snuggle next to Aziraphale, and for someone’s sake, _snuggling next to Aziraphale_ was a thing he could do now.

They did eventually order room service; Crowley spent the time waiting for it running a finger up and down Aziraphale’s tartan-flannel-clad arm. Aziraphale considerately read one-handed while he did so, occasionally turning his head to plant a kiss in Crowley’s hair (five times for _that_ new category).

The knock and call of “room service!” startled Crowley even though he knew it was coming, and if Aziraphale’s face hadn’t lit up, he would have resented the existence of anyone in the world other than himself and his angel. As it was, he kissed Aziraphale’s hand and went to answer the door, mildly surprised to look around again at the just-slightly-overdone opulence of their surroundings—

“Decadent!” he shouted at the room service person, who just blinked at him; clearly they’d seen worse. “That’s what it was, we’re being decadent.”

“Sounds good,” they nodded, rolling the cart in. He tipped them well.

“Here we are,” Crowley announced to Aziraphale, who'd stayed put in the bed. Crowley set a covered, savory-smelling tray on the bed and applied a corkscrew to a bottle of something red and expensive. Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his as he handed him a glass, and he didn’t even have to pretend it was an accident.

“What did you order us?” Crowley asked, starting to lift the cover off the tray.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, stopping him with a hand on his.

Crowley looked up into a tremulous smile that made his heart…wobble…and saw that Aziraphale was raising his glass. He raised his own automatically.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s free hand, brushed it delicately with his lips. “To the world,” he said softly, and Crowley melted. Again.

“Oh angel,” he answered, every tender emotion he’d ever had on full display, “to the world.”


End file.
